


Five Things That Weren't Comforting

by out_there



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-02
Updated: 2003-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that didn't happen to Sam Seaborn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Weren't Comforting

**Author's Note:**

> General and specific spoilers for S2. Gen and slash in certain places. A big, huge thanks to Signe and Jae Gecko who both went above and beyond in their beta duty. Without those two lovely ladies, this story would make far less sense.

_If the new American father feels bewildered and even defeated,  
let him take comfort from the fact that whatever he does   
in any fathering situation has a fifty percent chance of being right._

Bill Cosby "Fatherhood"

 

**California – 1973**

It was dark when Sam woke up to the sound of his parents fighting.

"How long? How long has this been going on?" Mom's voice was shrill with anger, but it was the sound of his dad's voice that compelled Sam to get out of bed and find out what was happening.

"Grace!" Dad never sounded like that; defeated, exhausted. It wasn't right.

"How long?" Her voice sounded urgent and demanding, none of its usual softness and patience.

The sounds of their voices drifted up to Sam as he opened his bedroom door and crept down the stairs. "A month. I've known her for a month." His voice was low and unsteady, filled with tiny pauses, as if the words didn't want to be said.

"And when did you start sleeping with her?" Quieter now, each word short and exact.

Dad sighed, and his voice sounded tired. "Two weeks ago."

The wood of the stairs was cold under Sam's bare feet, and he remembered his slippers lying neatly in his closet, but he didn't stop but he didn't stop, just kept walking down the dimly lit steps, one by one. The voices grew louder as he approached the living room. "Two weeks! For two weeks you're going to throw away your family? Two weeks is… Two weeks is nothing. For two weeks you're going to throw away your family? For two weeks you're going to deprive your son of a father?"

"I don't want to deprive him of anything! I love him, I love both of you." Sam was reminded of the dog down the street, of its low growls every time Sam walks by. The sound has the same effect on him, making his stomach clench, making him want to run. Instead, he pushed his shoulders back and stood up straight, just like dad taught him, and forced himself to keep walking.

There was long pause as he crossed the hallway, finally broken by his mom's voice. "You're not leaving?"

Sam stopped at the uncertain tone, and stood just outside the doorway. He could see firelight playing across the far wall. The shadows of the furniture loomed ahead of him but he couldn't see mom or dad from here. He could just hear the crackle of the flames, and dad's soft voice, "Not unless you want me to, Grace. I just… wanted you to know."

"I didn't want to know!" mom shouted back.

Dad's answering bellow was just as loud. "You deserved to hear the truth from me."

"Shut up. Just shut up!" Mom's voice rose to a screech, like the screen door just before it slammed shut. "You think I'd want to know about something like this?" His mom's shadow merged with the others, and then disappeared as she sat down in one of the chairs. "You'll stop seeing her?" she said, her voice trembling, but quieter.

Dad let the silence stretch until it felt unreal, like a dream. There was only the soft hiss of the fire and Sam had to peer around the corner, just to make sure he wasn't imagining this. Mom was dwarfed by the cushions of the chair. His dad stood with his back to her, facing the flames, when he finally spoke. "Probably not," dad said, his voice grating and low. Dad always said to tell the truth, but he sounded raw, as if the truth was painful to say.

Mom sighed and this time, the silence was worse; longer, colder. "Then I don't want to know about it. What if somebody found out? What if Sam's..." Mom's voice trailed off. She had sounded so determined, and now she sounded confused. She sounded like Sam, as if she just needed time to work out the words she wanted to say.

"Of course not," his dad said as he turned around to face her. The sad expression on his face was drowned in shadow as he looked away from her, and around the room. Then he spotted Sam, and dad's face froze for an instant. "Sam," dad said, and then broke into a smile. "What are you doing up?"

Sam shrugged guiltily, knowing that he should have been asleep, knowing he wasn't supposed to eavesdrop on adult conversations, because he wouldn't understand. He was almost tempted to lie and say he'd had a nightmare, but that would be worse. He looked over at mom, but she was staring at her hands.

"Come on Sam, let's get you to bed," Dad said warmly as he walked over to Sam and picked him up. He was too big these days for mom to lift him, had been for years now, but dad still could.

They went up the stairs, his dad's long legs spanning two steps at a time. Dad carried him into his room, and put him to bed, tucking the blankets snugly around Sam. Sam was tired and sleepy, but his stomach still felt like it was in knots and he needed to know. "Dad?"

"Yes?" his father replied and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Is mom… Are you leaving?" Sam asked in a small voice, not sure if he should ask.

"Of course not." His dad smiled and ran a hand through Sam's bangs. "We were talking about a business trip. Don't worry about it, Sam. Your mother and I will take care of it."

Sam smiled, and all at once he knew he didn't need to worry. It didn't matter what happened, whether Sam had trouble with bullies or was clumsy and broke something, if dad said he'd take care of something, he fixed it. He always kept his word.

"Now it's time for you to get some sleep. Sweet dreams, Sam." Then dad kissed his forehead and closed the door behind him, leaving Sam to dream.

 

 

*****

_Chide me then no more; be to me what you have been;   
and give me without measure the comfort of your friendship._

Thomas Jefferson "The Papers of Thomas Jefferson"

 

**New York – 1997**

Wrapping his hands around the styrofoam cup, he breathed in the warmth and slowly walked towards meeting room. Yesterday, Josh had blown into New York like gust of strong wind. He'd known Josh for years, and the guy still couldn't pick up a telephone to let Sam know to expect him. Sipping at the strong coffee, he stood outside the room and waited for Kensington Oil representatives to show up.

Sam had spent the night thinking about Josh's comments. 'I can't believe no one ever wrote a folk song about that' seemed to be on constant repeat inside his head and the idea that the "real thing" might be just around the corner, as close as Nashua, was enough to make Sam wonder if he was… worthy. If he was the real thing, or if he was all clever rhetoric, all show and no substance. If it was just legally brilliant deals, with no real purpose to them.

Watching Cameron and Loch arrive, he swallowed the last of the coffee and knew that the Kensington deal was a prime example of this. It lacked all traces of personal, social or environmental responsibility. It took just a few hours of research for Sam to realize how dangerous this deal could be, but it had taken most of the night to work out how. He was walking into the meeting on only a few hours sleep, buoyed up by an armful of notes, a mind full of facts, and a good deal of caffeine. He just hoped it would be enough.

Sitting opposite Cameron and Loch, the main representatives of Kensington Oil, Sam waited for his opportunity to present itself. When Jack Gage started to wind up the meeting, and Sam knew it was now or never. Just the idea of attempting this was enough to make his heart beat faster and his palms start to sweat.

"Actually, I have a thing," he started, and forced himself to continue. "I have a thing I was going to mention, just a proposal to throw out there. When I was a congressional aide, we had an expression that no idea was too stupid to say out loud. So here it is, and bear me out. Instead of buying these ships? Don't buy these ships. Buy other ships. Buy better ships. That's my idea." He heard the disbelief and surprise in everyone's comments, but pushed on regardless. "And the good news is we have a no-penalty clause we can exercise if we pull out before the first of December."

Of course Cameron would object, "But Sam, we want these ships. This is as little as we've ever paid for a fleet."

"Well, there's a reason why they don't cost a lot of money. They're 20-year old single-hulled VLCCs that nobody wants..." He went on to describe just why no-one wanted them, but out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Jack tapping his glasses against his hand. Jack was nervous and trying not to show it.

"And yesterday, he didn't know the difference between a ship and a boat!" Jack joked, obviously trying to distract the clients who were looking rather concerned.

"Sam, I thought you told us that you covered our liability," Cameron queried.

"I did. Strictly speaking, I did. But there's a broader liability to think about. People drove past Exxon stations after the Valdez." Now, it was time to announce the solution that he'd discovered at around 4am last night. Hopefully, they'd warm to it as quickly as he had. "There's a Suez tanker ready to launch in the Koje Island shipyard in Korea. Chevron just dropped the option, and it's sitting there in its cradle. Let's go get it."

"Sam, can I talk you for a second?" Jack motioned towards the door.

"308,000 deadweight tons, carries 2.2 million gallons, and you can have it today for 46 million," Sam continued as he stood up.

Loch finally spoke. "46 million dollars?"

"That's a good price!" It was a good price for this model, and it was unlikely to remain at that price for long.

Sam followed Jack out of the room and wasn't surprised when Jack basically threatened to fire him. Jack Gage was a smart man and a good lawyer, but he'd never been known for taking risks, and this was a big risk. But, Sam reminded himself, letting Kensington Oil buy those tankers would be a far greater risk, for everyone.

Back in the room, he took his seat again and tuned out Loch's queries about the taxation changes as he tried to work out how he could make this work. There had to be a way. When Rita asked him about amortization details, he spoke before thinking, "Eleven million extra dollars."

"Sam," Jack Gage warned.

Loch sighed impatiently. "We're back to this."

"Money's going to be spent, Mr. Loch. You can spend it now, or you can spend it later, but it's cheaper to spend it now." Jack Gage tried to interrupt him, but Sam wouldn't let him. "And it's also the right thing to do. Spend eleven million extra dollars."

"Sam -"

"Spend it on a better boat," Sam said, as Gage swore, but he refused to back down now. Instead, he listed the boats, the disasters that had been caused, gesturing with the sheets of paper in his hand, hearing his voice get wilder and more desperate with each catastrophe.

Jack started in placating tone of voice, "I'm sure they're all–"

"Spend an extra eleven million dollars." Cameron was staring at the table in front of him while Loch just shook his head slightly as if the sense in Sam's argument could simply be denied. Or as if Sam had lost his mind. Both of these were untrue, or at least Sam hoped so.

"Sam, that's enough," Jack tried to interrupt again.

"You don't want to pay for it? Pass the expense on to us."

This time it was Rita. "Sam!"

"Half a penny at the tank." He took five dollars out of his pocket, and put it down on the table. "Here's five bucks. A thousand people are on me."

"Sam!" Jack almost growled at him and as Sam turned to Jack, he realized that Jack might not know how important this was, but Jack did know that this was only irritating the clients. Sam wasn't going to win this way. He needed another angle. He looked up at a sudden sound, thinking someone was at the door, but it was just distant thunder.

Cameron was still avoiding eye-contact, but Sam's pause gave Loch time to get his thoughts together. "We're not indifferent to the concerns of the environmentalists, Sam. But first and foremost, we're a business. We're not going to turn down a good deal because it's not supported by a group who have never approved of us."

At least Sam had their attention again, even if they hadn't paid attention to his earlier points. "Then look at it from the business perspective. Compare the benefits to the costs. It's the better deal. You spend the extra money now and you'll save yourself in the future."

Loch still looked unimpressed, but Cameron asked, "How does this save us money?"

"The ships will crash-"

"And our liability is covered," Loch said irately. "We've already gone through this."

"Your legal liability will be covered. When they crash, the EPA won't be able to take a dime from you. Not directly, at least."

"What do you mean?" Cameron asked, now looking slightly concerned. Jack Gage looked as if he was getting ready to fire Sam the minute he left the boardroom, but Sam didn't care. This spark of interest was the opening he needed.

"When it crashes, you can bet your belt buckle that they'll try to sue you for punitive damages. As soon as they realize they can't, they'll do the next best thing. They'll bring in further safety restrictions." Loch was shaking his head again, but Sam continued. "Think about it. A major oil spill occurs and the government will have plenty of support from congress, and the general population, to crack down on those 'polluting our waters'. That's how they'll phrase it, and it'll be pretty hard for any politician to try to defend you."

Sam paused and took a sip of water as he gauged his audience. Cameron was paying rapt attention now and Loch was sitting back, listening intently if skeptically. Rita, David and the other Gage Whitney lawyers were waiting for him to continue, looking incredulous. Even Jack looked curious enough to hear him out. Taking a deep breath, Sam went for broke.

"Regardless of how strong we make your liability shielding, they will make you pay by restricting the model of oil tankers. There's a reason why no-one else wants these boats and the only other international company with this model has announced that they'll be phasing them out in the next three months. You'll be the only company with these almost negligently obsolete ships. The Secretary will have very little difficulty saying these ships are unsafe, and that they have 'serious repair problems'. They'll make you pay by focusing on these ships and demanding that you upgrade their navigation and steering systems."

"Then we upgrade them later," Loch said, but he sounded somewhat uncertain and very wary.

"Ignoring the fact that these ships will be even more out of date and will cost more to fix, and taking into account that one of the ships will have crashed and therefore will not be repaired, it will still cost you at least sixteen million." Sam passed them a copy of his neatly typed calculations.

"These are the costs you would pay today, if you bought these ships and upgraded them immediately. Upgrading the ships costs nearly as much as buying them in the first place, and even after they're upgraded, the VLCC's are still single hulled, less secure and less fuel effective with a lower holding capacity that the Suez." Looking around at the quiet crowd, Sam had the sudden satisfaction of knowing he'd won them over. "It's a better boat. It's a better deal. Spend the extra money."

* * *

Half an hour later, he had managed to convince Cameron and Loch not to sign the VLCC deal and arranged to meet on Monday to discuss the Suez. When they left the meeting, Sam wasn't surprised that Jack asked him to stay back. His stomach was a knot of dread and he briefly wondered what Josh would say when he told him why he'd been fired.

"From this research, we should be able to finalize within the month," Jack said as he looked at the notes that Sam had prepared on the Suez. "When did Chevron pull out?"

"Yesterday evening. From what I could gather, there were some complications with their finance arrangements, but-"

"You did well, Sam," Jack admitted grudgingly, "But next time you're pursuing other options for our clients, tell the partners in advance. You know that it's better to present these things as a firm." Jack was so patronizing, it was almost insulting.

Sam nodded and didn't point out that it had been a last minute change of heart. "Sorry, Jack. The Suez deal only fell through last night. I didn't know until this morning that it was a viable option." He tried to keep his tone polite, but only just managed it.

"There's no point being a partner if you don't work as part of the firm," Jack advised as he gathered his file and walked out of the meeting room.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. All in all, it had gone far better than he expected. Not only had he not been fired, it looked like the partnership was still a possibility and on top of that, there was a little voice inside saying that he'd got this one right. He'd done the right thing, taken a chance and made a difference. A huge difference. Sam couldn't help grinning as he realized that this internal voice sounded a lot like Josh.

Closing the door behind him, Sam made his way back to his office. The extra work required for Kensington would probably make things awkward around the office for a while. He was interrupted from his thoughts by Claire walking beside him. "Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sorting out the folders in his hand, he passed those to be filed to her. Claire was a godsend when it came to keeping his files in order.

"Your friend's waiting in your office. Josh Lyman."

That brought another smile to his face. A celebratory drink was in order. "Has he been waiting long?"

She shrugged, shifting the folders in her arms. "About forty minutes. I left him in your office."

"Oh. Thanks." Sam strode into his office, ready to crow his victory, to find Josh sitting opposite his desk, running a towel over his hair. "Hey. You got caught in the rain?"

"Yeah," Josh nodded, then looked up and smiled, "Hey, Sam."

Really, that look said it all. Josh's smile was just a little too tight and his jaw was almost clenched. His shoulders were hunched and the tension around his eyes told Sam everything he needed to know. "He wasn't the real thing." A bitter sting of disappointment dulled his good mood, but it was quickly replaced with concern for Josh.

Josh shrugged at the statement. "Yeah. He just…" Josh twisted the damp towel in his hands. "It's the same spiel I've heard from a dozen different candidates. Hell, I've heard the same words come out of Hoynes' mouth."

"Was he bad?" Sam made his way across the office, sorting out the files sitting on his desk, carefully avoiding eye contact.

Josh stood and leaned against the wall. "He wasn't bad. Apart from the economics lectures, he was a good speaker. He'd be a good politician," Josh said slowly, thoughtfully.

"But not great?" That was what it came down to in the end. There were a lot of good candidates, smart guys who were a good choice. There just didn't seem to be any great candidates, who said what they meant, who understood the true importance and influence of politics, who saw beyond their own preconceptions and egos. He looked over at Josh and saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

"With enough coaching, maybe." Josh's eyes shifted and he stared out the window, watching the downpour. "He's got Leo McGarry in charge of his campaign. It's possible."

Josh looked back at him, obviously uncomfortable with this conversation. As Sam struggled for something else to discuss, he noticed Josh's knuckles were pale against the dark towel. "Is that my towel?"

Josh looked down, surprised. He'd probably forgotten he was even holding it. "Yeah. I stole it from your gym bag." Josh grinned and gestured at the bag sitting in the corner. "You mind?"

"Nah. I didn't get a chance to go this afternoon anyway," Sam said, picking up the bag in question.

"Lucky for me." Josh threw him the towel and he shoved it in, between shorts and sneakers.

He closed his briefcase with a crisp snap of the lock and stood up, ready to leave. "Want to go for a drink?"

Josh ran a hand through his hair, pushing the damp curls into disarray. "Thanks, but I'm not in the mood for Lisa at the moment."

The reply didn't surprise Sam. Josh and Lisa had never got along. Lisa thought, and had said, that Josh was an arrogant, ego-driven, holier-than-thou know-it-all. And Josh had accused her of being a superficial yuppie who was going to claw her way to the top through scheming and a good marriage. That explosive argument had been the last time that either of them drank in the other's presence.

"It's just us. Lisa's out of town for the weekend. Special assignment," he said, feeling his lips twist into a smirk at her phrasing.

Josh perked up at that comment. "Okay, let's go."

"That's more like it," Sam grinned and grabbed his bag, manhandling Josh out the door.

* * *

They were onto their second beer by the time Josh told him more about Bartlet. Unfortunately, Sam had to agree with Josh's assessment. The guy didn't sound any better than Hoynes, just less likely to win.

"Did you tell McGarry?"

"Did I walk up to an old friend of my father's and say that your guy will fit right into Washington because he's as much of a shmuck as they are?" Josh paused to swallow and then continued, with a smile in his voice, "There's no polite way to say that."

Sam nodded. Josh had a good point. "So, you sat there for an hour and listened to an economics lecturer recite the campaigning classics?" he asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"It could have been worse."

He looked over at Josh. "How?"

"Well, at least I had the Times crossword to stave off the boredom." Josh smiled and leaned back on the barstool.

Sam raised his glass in a mock toast. "So, how did you make your escape? Didn't McGarry try to corner you to talk?" If McGarry had gone over to Washington to convince Josh to listen to the guy, it seemed unlikely that he'd let Josh leave without trying to convince him further.

"Actually, I got an early reprieve. I had to sneak out to answer a call on my cell," Josh said with a quick amused grin. "Karen's call let me avoid what I'm sure would have been a fascinating discussion about milk tariffs."

Knowing Josh, a call from Lisa would have been welcomed if it gave him an excuse to leave. "What did she call about?"

"The research files on the Ethanol tax credit. Told her it was sitting on my desk before I left. Sometimes that woman only listens to the sound of her own voice," Josh finished with a grimace.

"No wonder Hoynes likes her," Sam said, laughing. It was a cheap shot, but it was worth it to hear Josh chuckle.

"You may be right, my friend." Josh's voice became serious and he took a deep drink from the glass in his hand. "You may be right."

There was a lull in the conversation and Sam found himself looking around the bar. It was smoky and softly lit, filled with the Friday night crowd in dark suits. There were groups hanging around the tables, laughing and drinking, gladly welcoming the weekend. It seemed to be full of merrymakers, full of chatter and jokes, and he felt surprisingly out of place. He felt old. Possibly it was just the lack of sleep from last night.

He looked down at his watch and realized it was only half past eight. As tired as he was, he didn't want to end the night just yet. Thinking of going home made him remember that he didn't know when Josh was leaving. "When's your flight?"

"What?" Josh looked over at him. Apparently, he'd been lost in his own thoughts as well.

"Are you flying back tonight?"

Josh blinked at him, and then seemed to understand what Sam was talking about. "Nah," Josh answered, staring into his glass.

Sam turned and leaned towards Josh, unable to hide his pleased smile. "How long are you staying in New York?"

Josh shrugged and admitted, "I don't know. A few days, maybe."

"Aren't you due back in Washington?" From the way Josh talked, he couldn't leave the campaign for more than a day before things started falling apart. "Or is there something here that you need to do?"

Josh shook his head. "I told Karen I was taking a week off."

"They let you?"

Sam found himself thinking that there was this thing that happened once you knew Josh for a couple of years. You started to pick up on his different ways of avoiding things. There was the smirking change of subject when something was just too stupid to talk about; there was the angry glare to the side when Josh had been beaten. There was the nonchalant stare and slight twist of the lips when Josh was trying to spare someone's feelings. Sam had seen a lot of that one since he'd become engaged to Lisa.

Right now, Josh wasn't doing any of those things. He was staring down at his hands, tearing the bar napkin into smaller pieces. He was talking around something because he either didn't know how he felt about it, or didn't want to talk about how he felt about it. Josh did the same thing when he'd told Sam about Joanie. He could remember Josh slowly tearing the label from the beer bottle, not looking up once, just talking in this low, shuddering tone until the story was finished.

They shouldn't be in a bar for something as big as that. "If you're not leaving tonight, you might as well stay at my place."

Josh looked thankful for the reprieve. "Thanks."

"Do you want to go?" Sam asked, nodding his head towards the door. "There's a couple of beers in the fridge and we could catch the Knicks game on TV." He was interrupted by his own yawn. "I had an early morning," he explained.

Josh smiled. "You're turning into an old man, Sammy boy."

Sam looked sharply at Josh. "You remember why you're not allowed to give me nicknames, right?"

Josh finished his glass and stood up. "Because you're very touchy? You have a deep mistrust of the sincerity and affection behind the nickname?"

"Because your nicknames suck, Josh," Sam said, and saw Josh grin and nod.

"Like yours don't?" Josh joked, rolling his eyes. "Not everyone understands my fine sense of humor."

"To be honest, I don't think many do." Sam smiled to take the sting out of the words, then added, "Besides, you shouldn't be insulting the guy who's paying for your cab."

"Well, as you're making partner soon, I should think you'd be able to afford a cab for an old friend," Josh said as they left the bar together.

* * *

Sam opened the fridge door and hunted for the beer bottles. They were hidden behind a tub of butter, half a loaf of bread and the leftovers of a casserole. He couldn't remember when Lisa had bought the low-fat yogurt on the second shelf, and wondered if he should check the expiry date. He picked up the bottles instead and wandered over to the couch.

The game was turned up loud, and Josh had loosened his tie and was resting his feet on the coffee table. Lisa would chide him for not using coasters but there really wasn't any point. He handed a beer to Josh, starting the conversation. "So?"

Josh looked at him smugly. "The Knicks are going to win. You know that right?"

"Home team. I think I'm statutorily bound to agree with that statement." Then he added, "But the Lakers look pretty good. Plus, there's the Laker girls."

"I wouldn't insult the Knicks Dancers if I were you," Josh said appreciatively, and nodded at the girls onscreen. "You enjoying it? In New York City?" Josh asked him that question every time he visited. It was routine, tradition, and strangely comforting.

"Not enjoying the winter, but otherwise it's good. A bit busy, a bit crowded. It's a bit noisy and a bit rushed, but..." he shrugged.

"But Lisa likes it too much to leave?" Josh said, and then turned to the TV screen as the Knicks made an unexpected shot.

"But it's always moving. It's alive, Josh. I like it." He didn't bother mentioning that Lisa wanted to move out to the suburbs when they were married, when they had kids. She stayed here because of him, really.

Josh gave him a long look over his bottle, then shrugged and swallowed. "If you say so."

"So how come you're not going back to Washington?" he asked, as he watched the Knicks score.

"I'm thinking about it."

"About what?"

Josh swallowed and spoke, still focusing on the game. "About it. About Washington and Hoynes. About everything really."

"Why?" he prompted softly.

Josh sighed and reached for the remote, turning the sound down. "I've always wanted to do this. You know that. And here I am, working on the campaign of the next Democrat president. Hoynes is a sure thing. He's not the real thing, but he'll be the next president and I'll be working in the White House. Working in the West Wing."

Sam nodded, watching Josh carefully. "So what's the problem?"

Josh turned to face him, staring at Sam intently. "I'm not… I'm not excited about it. I'm thinking about the next four years and wondering what we'll do, because I don't know. I'm working on his campaign and I don't think he's going to have the balls to stand up for what he believes in. It's going to be yet another president who's popular, who's a decent guy, who doesn't really achieve much of anything and who'll only be remembered as the next in a line of ineffective leaders!"

Josh emphasized his points with his hands, and nearly knocked their bottles off the table. Sam grabbed them with a quick lurch and managed to hit his shins in the process. "Ouch."

"You okay?" Josh asked, concerned and more than slightly amused.

Grimacing, Sam placed the bottles back on the table, and then sat down, rubbing his leg. "Yeah. You were saying?"

"I don't think I want to work for Hoynes." Josh pressed at his temples, both hands rubbing in small, concentric circles. He sighed, and went on; speaking so softly Sam could barely hear him. "I don't think I want to work in politics." Josh looked over at him, with a small self-deprecating smile in place. "You know, I half expected the ceiling to cave in when I said that."

He rested a hand on Josh's arm. "It's not the end of the world, Josh."

Josh ran a hand through his hair. "It kinda is. I've worked towards this forever. What the hell do I do now?"

"Well, a smart, capable guy with a law degree? I hear that's a good thing in a lawyer," he said gently, smiling at Josh.

Josh snorted. "I've never practiced in my life. I've never even thought about it."

"You'd be good," Sam assured him, surprised by the confidence and certainty in his own voice.

"You think?" Josh asked, surprised. "It's throwing away everything. It's so…"

"Courageous," Sam interrupted.

Josh's smile was tight. "I was going to say stupid. Or impractical. There's nothing admirable about wasting years of your life, or giving up because you're not having fun."

"It's highly admirable," Sam admonished. "What's impressive about sticking to a job you hate because you think you should? What's so great about sticking to something because it's expected, or it's practical, or it's what everybody else is doing?" Josh was just shaking his head, and for a moment, Sam almost felt like a hypocrite when he remembered he hadn't told Josh about Lisa yet. He would, later. "What's admirable about bowing before peer pressure? The courageous thing is standing up against what everyone else says is right, and living your own life, the way you know you should."

"You're making a career change sound like an adventure, Sam." Josh's voice was equal parts amused and resigned.

"It is. It's one of the greatest adventures given to modern man. To go bravely into the world and seek his fortune." Josh rolled his eyes at Sam's hyperbole, but he didn't dispute it. "Talk it over with your dad. I'm sure he'll say the same thing. Any coward can do what everyone tells them. It takes courage to follow your heart."

Josh nodded slowly, considering his words, and Sam knew that Josh would be discussing this with his father soon. "I could have worked at the White House, Sam," Josh said wistfully, looking at Sam.

Sam leaned over, closer to Josh. "Instead, you're following your heart. You're a contemporary hero, Josh," he said with a smile and then followed his own heart.

Josh's lips were salty and tasted of beer and the peanuts from the bar. It was unfamiliar, strange to feel stubble against his chin, strange to smell Josh's cologne instead of Lisa's perfume. It was weird and unusual, but felt good, felt right. He could feel his pulse speed through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest waiting for Josh's reaction. And then Josh responded, opening his mouth and pressing against Sam, digging his fingers into Sam's shoulders and pulling him closer.

There was the coarse feel of Josh's curls beneath Sam's hands and moist air against his cheek as Josh pulled back a fraction of an inch to breathlessly ask, "What about Lisa?"

"I'll talk to her on Monday," he muttered, distracted as he dived back in for another kiss, and felt Josh's answering moan, fingers clutching at him before suddenly pushing away.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Josh was out of breath and his eyes were furious.

"It means we've been engaged for three years. It means I'm not calling the engagement off over the phone. She deserves to hear about this face to face."

Josh tensed and pulled back, mentally back-peddling as fast as he could. "It's just a kiss. It's not a reason to break up with her."

"It is. If I'm thinking about kissing you, and doing a hell of a lot more, it is." That statement was enough to make Josh stand up and start to pace in front of the TV. "I was thinking about it yesterday, Josh. I've already made up my mind."

"It's just cold-feet," Josh said, shaking his head. "Pre-wedding jitters."

"It's convenience. And it's easy and expected. I don't want to marry someone because she fits in well at company dinners," Sam said. Josh sat down on the couch again and took a slow drink, waiting for him to continue. "If I marry someone, I want her to be someone who excites me, who I can talk to. Who makes my heart beat just that little bit faster every time she walks into the room... Who inspires me to be the best person I can be, because she believes in me and knows that I'm..." He paused for a second, using the excuse of taking a drink to try to get his thoughts in order, to try to explain the basic point of his argument. "Lisa doesn't do that. She never really did. You always have."

Josh stared at him for a long moment and then his shoulders started to shake. Josh burst out laughing and let his head fall back on the couch. "It sounds like you're asking me to elope."

Josh's laugh was contagious and Sam found himself snickering as well. "Maybe I am. It's not the worst idea I've ever had." Suddenly, just like that, the tension was gone and they were joking like old friends.

"I know it's not," Josh said, still laughing. "I have pictures of you in the eighties. An entire decade of bad fashion ideas, my friend," Josh teased, and gave him a warm look, his hand casually resting on Sam's arm.

Sam shrugged and reached over for his beer. "You didn't survive them unscathed either," he lightly teased.

Josh made a face of mock horror, and then turned to the TV with a loud curse as the Knicks missed the shot. "Oh, come on! I can't believe they missed that!"

Sam shrugged. "They were probably too distracted by the Dancers." Settling back to enjoy the rest of the game, he resolved to tell Josh about the Kensington Oil victory, later.

 

*****

_I don't know much about death and the sorriest lesson I've learned  
is that words, my most trusted guardians against chaos,   
offer small comfort in the face of anyone's dying._

Alison Hawthorne Deming "Inside the Wolf"

 

**Illinois – 1997**

Running down the airport corridor, Sam slowed as he tried to figure out which direction led to gate fifty-six. There were too many gates and too many corridors, and he didn't have time to get lost. He spotted the arrow to the left and increased his pace. He briefly spared a quick curse for the interior design of airports, all alike, all monotonous and huge and confusing, as he ran. One leg in front of the other, panting for breath; he hitched at the bag over his shoulder as he felt the strap start to slide down. It was a lost battle, so he gave up and just held the bag clumsily under one arm.

He caught a fleeting glance of his reflection in the dark glass of the window, looking almost as harried as he felt. Then his attention was taken by the flight attendants' desk that sprang into view as he turned the corner. He sprinted the last few yards there, with one arm around his bag and the other clutching his ticket desperately. He came to a sudden stop at the desk, handing over his hastily purchased ticket, struggling for breath.

"Flight 175…" he managed between gasps, his voice strangled and shoulders heaving, "To Kennedy…?"

"The final boarding call's already gone out." The girl's – no, the young woman's – brows lowered for a second, then she said, "This way, sir."

She took his ticket and led him through the gateway, swiping his ticket for him as he followed her, still wheezing. She led him on to the plane and to a slim brunette who informed him his seat was, "Halfway down, on the aisle, to the right".

Following her instructions, he walked slowly down the aisle, looking around the plane and giving himself time to remember how to breathe normally. He spotted who he was looking for, but was ushered and bustled into his seat by the flight attendant, who efficiently forced his bag into the overhead compartment and reminded Sam of the seatbelt sign.

Strapping the belt up, he tuned out the familiar safety instructions and tried to practice the upcoming conversation in his head, but ended up just counting the nine rows between them. He listened to the low rumble of the engines, and felt the slight displacement of the plane gathering speed, and the small jolt as they left the ground. There was pressure of gaining altitude, of being pushed back in his seat, of his ears popping as the clouds beside them covered the night sky from view but his mind remained blank.

He couldn't think of the appropriate words, let alone full sentences. He wondered if there was ever an appropriate way to talk about this. You try not to think about the idea of losing someone you love, so how does anyone know what to say when it happens?

The seatbelt sign flickered off with a small chime, and the captain confirmed their destination, wishing the passengers a good flight and informing them that they could walk around the plane. Sam was standing and out of his seat before the captain had finished.

Walking up the aisle, Sam counted off the rows one by one. When he got to the ninth, he leaned over and placed a hand on Josh's shoulder. Josh looked up, his face guardedly polite, and then surprised.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here, Sam? How did you…?" Josh sounded confused and disbelieving.

He left his hand on Josh's shoulder, feeling the warmth bleed through the soft fabric of Josh's shirt. "Donna told me and I got her to book me a ticket."

"Oh." Josh said, almost nodding.

"She told me what happened. I'm so s-"

"Don't. Just…" Josh looked at him fiercely for a moment. "Just don't say it, Sam. Everybody says it. Surely you can come up with something more original." Josh grimaced and looked away in silent apology.

He knew Josh didn't mean it, but he still a little hurt, a little ashamed. He wrote great speeches, but he didn't have the right words for this. He let his hand drift down to Josh's arm, and squeezed lightly. "Bartlet and Leo came down?"

Josh stared at his arm, but Sam kept his hand there. "Yeah. Seems there's a lot of people offering to come and hold my hand." Josh smiled at him, a quick twist of the lips and flash of teeth. His eyes focused on Sam shoulder, or at the windows past him, Sam wasn't sure which. "I'll be fine, Sam. You shouldn't have…"

Sam pulled his hand back and shrugged. "I won't be missed too much." He dug his hands into his pockets. "Who knows? It might be good for me and Toby. Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

Josh looked stricken for a moment, and Sam mentally cursed his choice of idioms. He was about to apologize, awkwardly no doubt, when the brunette stewardess came up and politely asked him to clear the aisle and return to his seat. "I'll see you after the flight?"

Josh nodded, and he started back towards his seat.

"Sam?" Josh waited until Sam turned back to him. Then, he spoke softly and simply. "Thanks."

 

*****

_There is no substitute for the comfort supplied  
by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship. _

Iris Murdoch

 

**District of Columbia – 2000**

Looking around the pagoda, Sam was reminded of the wedding. It had been seven long years ago now, but the similarity was there: warm spring day, outdoors setting, and a huge white canopy above long tables of guests. It was very fitting.

Standing slowly, he raised his glass to get the crowd's attention. "Well, as I was the best man seven years ago, I think I have the right to make the first toast." The warm breeze rustled the notes in front of him, but they were just a prop. He knew this speech by heart.

He waited for the gentle hum of chatter to calm down before continuing. Looking over the table, he caught Josh's eye and smiled. For a moment, his pulse thudded frantically, but then the familiar poise of public speaking kicked in.

"Today, we have two reasons to celebrate. First of all, Josh is finally back at work, much to the relief of his dear wife. Unfortunately, I don't think the Republicans feel the same way." There was a murmur of amusement through the crowd, and Sam was secretly relieved that they chuckled. He certainly wasn't the only one who was still badly shaken up by Rosslyn, even after Josh's miraculous recovery.

"After having Josh back for a month, a very reputable source,--" he said, nodding at Leo, who rolled his eyes affectionately, "--has told me that the Republican Party is considering moving to Vancouver. Of course, we've all offered to help them with the airport runs. A few of us have even offered to help them pack." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Josh whisper something in his wife's ear, and she giggled. Her wedding band gleamed as she pushed a strand of cornstalk yellow hair behind her ear.

"Regardless of how much we'd like to see the Republicans become Canadians, that's not the reason we're celebrating. Today, we're here to celebrate the seventh wedding anniversary of Mr and Mrs Josh Lyman. Normally, people tend to make big celebrations out of the anniversaries that are divisible by five, but we all know Josh. Sometimes, he just has to be different." He turned his head and saw Josh smiling at him and holding her hand.

"I've been one of Josh's best friends for over a decade and there are a lot of things that I've come to understand about him." For a second, he remembered the first time he met Josh and almost couldn't believe it was so long ago.

"The first time I met Josh, he was walking around a corner, in mid-conversation with some mystery person who hadn't been able to keep up. At the time, I was so surprised by his sudden entry that I almost walked into a wall. Luckily, Josh stopped me from looking clumsy." There's a brief murmur of laughter because everyone knows it would take far more than Josh to make Sam look graceful.

Josh had stopped him with a firm hand on his arm and a quick grin. He'd said that Sam might want to keep an eye on where he was going, standing just a little too close to Sam, letting his hand linger a little too long. Then Josh had stepped back, giving Sam a slow thorough stare before pulling his hand back.

"Josh introduced himself as Josh Lyman, the guy who's basically running this campaign," and for a second, the memories seemed too clear. 'Sam', he'd answered, swallowing and blushing all at once, and forgetting to mention his surname for a few moments of intense silence. Josh's eyes had narrowed in concentration, remembering something. Then he'd confirmed that Sam was 'the Duke guy, the one that went to Duke and Princeton'. Sam had just nodded, overwhelmed, and that was the start of their friendship.

"Not a lot has changed since then. I still manage to walk into walls, and Josh still secretly thinks he's running the show." Looking over at Josh in the muted sunlight, he doesn't look very different. Same curly hair, just slightly less of it; same confidence and charisma. Josh still hungered for victory, but these days, it was also mixed with contentment. "Josh is politically brilliant. He's widely feared by Republicans, admired by Democrats, and his highest sporting aspiration is having someone famous call him 'dude'. As a person, he is intelligent, sweet, intriguing, kind and charming." There was a soft titter from the audience, and Josh took that moment to interrupt.

"Hey, you forgot extremely handsome," Josh added, grinning widely. "And modest."

"No, I didn't." Turning to Josh in mock seriousness, Sam replied, "I'm trying to name the qualities you actually do have."

Josh shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly, "Well, now we all know that delusional is one of yours." Beside Josh, her shoulders were shaking in mirth, and the curtain of blonde hair hid a laugh.

Sam smiled at the fond teasing, and continued with his toast. "Having said this, it's also clear to everyone that one of Josh's most outstanding traits is his ability to convince people. For example, I'm constantly surprised Josh convinces her not to leave him." CJ's sudden loud laughter distracted him for a moment, but she got it under control quickly. "He even convinced me to run away and join the political circus of campaigning.

"I'll always remember Josh's blinding smile as he stood dripping in the corridor. As he told me that I had to see this guy, this was something I had to do. He'd already spoken to Lisa and she had reacted with her typical enthusiasm, positive she could write on the campaign as well as anywhere." He left everything behind, taking Josh's word that Bartlet was the real thing. Josh's smile had been contagious and they were both grinning when they made their travel arrangements. Sam knows precisely how convincing Josh can be.

"Josh is a highly convincing man. Sitting here today, he convinces you to believe that love at first sight really does happen, and that it can last. I had the pleasure of introducing these two and I saw Josh fall head over heels in a matter of minutes.

"There is a moment when you can see people fall in love. It happens in the space of a heartbeat. Their smile widens, their eyes sparkle and suddenly, they're besotted. When Josh snuck into the party late, I saw that expression on Josh's face. When I introduced him to my classmate Lisa, Josh beamed. It couldn't have been any more obvious that he was utterly smitten." That's what Sam always tells people when they ask how a political operative ended up marrying a journalist.

There are other things Sam doesn't say. He doesn't say that at the time, he thought he had a crush on Josh. Josh was the first, the only, guy that made him blush, and smile, and stutter, that made him notice every time Josh put a friendly arm around him. He doesn't say these things because they seem foolish in hindsight. He knows it was just a case of being young when it was cool to be sexually ambiguous, or to at least be questioning your sexuality. It amuses Sam that that's the closest he's ever come to being cool.

"I've had the pleasure of watching them grow, of seeing them grow into incredible, inspirational people, of seeing their love grow stronger with each year that goes by. As a friend, I've also had the misfortune of seeing them go through hard times.

"She dropped everything to go with Josh to his father's funeral, to help him observe it the way a good Jewish son should, and that quiet support was unmistakable when she stood beside him at Mrs Landringham's service." Lisa was Josh's top priority when they first discovered they'd never have children of their own, but that seems too intimate to say here. "After Roslyn, Donna had to force Lisa to go home and rest. Even so, during those weeks, Lisa almost became part of the furniture of Josh's room. She was there every time we came to visit, sitting in the corner of the hospital room, typing quietly on her laptop as he slept." He saw Josh subtly reach for her hand, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white. Sam almost regrets that last sentence, but it was the truth, and during Roslyn it reassured him more than Donna's smiles or Bartlet's speeches.

"I've seen them deal with disasters with a level of love and support that would make most of us envious. They are living proof that even in your darkest hours, sometimes love can be your hope, and your savior, and your guide. These two are enough to convince you to believe in the sappiest of clichés. Love conquers all. All you need is love. Together, Josh and Lisa remind us that these phrases are clichés because they are truisms, and that if we're very lucky, these things can be real.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to raise your glasses with me, and drink to the luckiest couple I've ever known." The crowd raised their glasses and there was a small chorus of delicate clinks, as they toasted. He looked over to the couple, pleased to see them holding their glasses high and smiling at him.

"To Josh and Lisa."

 

*****

_From ignorance our comfort flows.  
The only wretched are the wise._

Matthew Prior "To the Hon. Charles Montague."

 

**District of Columbia – 2001**

Years later, he'd look back and realize that he'd been the eighteenth person to know. It hadn't been planned. There certainly hadn't been a strategic reason the Deputy Communications Director found out before the Deputy Chief of Staff, or the Press Secretary. It had just been just random chance.

Sam had told Ainsley about the need to add some humor to the Correspondents' Dinner speech, and then dropped in to Leo's office to confirm a few details about the upcoming SME speech. He'd tried checking with Josh about just how strongly they wanted to push the new approach. Josh's answer had been "I'm not sure. Leo talked to Toby about it," and a distracted wave as he'd turned back to the Correspondence speech.

Toby was even more surly than usual lately, no doubt quietly working on something inside his own head, and far less than welcoming to interruptions. Plus, he wasn't in his office. So Sam decided to go straight to the source. Well, straight to the Chief of Staff, and in the White House, Leo virtually was the source.

Margaret mentioned that Leo had just stepped out to talk to Toby and that she didn't know when he'd be back, so Sam decided to wait in Leo's office. He was sitting there, pulling at his tie, absent-mindedly straightening his jacket, when he suddenly realized just how he could start the third paragraph of the SME speech. He had the perfect line, a simple, clear segue between the two ideas, and knew he had to write it down before he lost it. Searching in his pockets for a pen, he stood over Leo's desk and wrote on the pad of paper sitting there.

The others could deal with adding jokes to the Correspondence speech without him for a while.

The words flowed on to the page, sentence after sentence. He heard a door open and close, a few rooms over he guessed, and looked up to find that twenty minutes had passed. He was in the middle of his second page, but if he stopped now, he'd forget the precise phrases. The ideas would be gone, and the words would be stilted.

That was how he happened to overhear.

Honestly, he would have thought that it would be harder to overhear a conversation taking place in the Oval Office. Perhaps it was just a side affect of the late hour and the quiet hallways; sound traveled easier, clearer. He found himself staring at the connecting door, and realized it was slightly ajar, which was why he could hear the President offering Toby a glass of bourbon. Hearing the President briefly mention terrorists and Yosemite, and other things he shouldn't be overhearing, he walked over to close it.

He had every intention of closing it, of taking the pad, or tearing off the pieces of paper he'd written on, and typing the paragraphs up. Later, he would remind himself of this frequently: he meant to close the door. He wasn't meant to hear.

"Toby, around ten years ago, for a period of a few months, I was feeling run down and I had a pain in my leg. They both eventually subsided, but then, eight years ago, the pain came back, as well as numbness. My vision would be blurry sometimes, and I'd get dizzy. During an eye exam, the doctor detected abnormal pupil responses and ordered an MRI. The radiologist found plaque on my brain and spine. I have a relapsing remitting course of MS."

The words sank into his mind slowly, spreading their meaning across memories of campaigns, and hopes, and ideals. He heard a clock ticking loudly in Leo's office, heard a higher echo of the sound from the Oval Office, but the beat of his pulse felt louder than both. His hand rested on the cool handle of the door for a long moment that stretched into a numb eternity, until Toby's low rumble interrupted.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

For a split second, the numbness was replaced with a soaring hope as he waited for the President to deny it.

"I have multiple sclerosis, Toby."

It was the President's calm reply that forced Sam to move. Quietly, ever so gently, he closed the door. This shouldn't have been overheard. It shouldn't, it couldn't, be overheard by anyone else. It would be a disaster.

He measured this moment in breaths, in steps, in heartbeats, as he walked calmly, surely, over to Leo's desk, picked up his pen and put it back in his pocket. He tore off pages covered in his immature handwriting, folding them away in his jacket, and placed the pad back in the centre of Leo's desk, just where it had been when he started writing. Walking to the door, he looked around the room carefully, making sure that his eavesdropping wouldn't be obvious to anyone, especially not to Leo.

He walked past Margaret's empty desk and was glad that she wouldn't know when he'd left or how long he'd stayed.

He walked in on the others, working on the speech and claiming the takeout Chinese. Ainsley was eating heartily; Larry and Ed were writing at the end of the table, possibly talking Spanish; Josh and Donna were arguing about flowers and anniversaries. He knew where Toby and Leo were, but he briefly wondered where CJ was. He was sure he knew, he just couldn't remember at the moment.

Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he sat down and then picked up an egg roll. Chewing and swallowing was a task, and his mouth seemed too full of bitter disappointment to taste anything else. Then Ainsley tapped on his shoulder and asked him to pass the sauce, with a quick bob of her blonde Republican head as thanks.

Breathing deeply, he reached for a pen and forced himself to focus. The smile on his face was a little stretched, a little tired, but the Correspondence speech needed to be fixed tonight. He remembered telling Leo that the world doesn't stop because of personal disasters, and the national government doesn't either. They still needed to get the job done.

So he wrote, and smiled, and came up with bad jokes with the rest of them.

And later, he waited to be told.


End file.
